


at first light

by rukafais



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 04:39:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7830667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rukafais/pseuds/rukafais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The process of letting go of someone you treasure is rarely a painless thing, but nothing remains the same forever.</p>
<p>"Though the parting hurts, the rest is in your hands."</p>
            </blockquote>





	at first light

**Author's Note:**

> If you recognised the quote in the summary, you know what this fic's gonna be like
> 
> sorry everybody

“You are leaving, then.”

“I am,” he says, and his voice is heavy. Mondatta looks so frail in the pale half-light of dawn; white robes and shining metal, surrounded by the gently drifting snow. 

(Someone more versed in human religion might say that Mondatta looked angelic, then. Zenyatta applies no such descriptor. He doesn’t want to associate this memory with more sadness, more grief. More guilt.)

“You must not regret the choice you made, Zenyatta.” His friend’s voice is soft, as it always is (was). 

(Everything Mondatta does is soft, gentle. Subtle and glacially patient.

They will come around, he had always said. It will take time, but they will come around.)

“Everyone must walk their own path-”

“I know,” Zenyatta says, shaking his head. “I know. ‘Everyone must walk their own path, and this is yours’. You have said that so many times, Mondatta.”

“I say it because it is true.”

“I know that, too.” There’s a bit of amusement in Zenyatta’s voice. Mondatta repeats himself, quite a bit. If repetition is the path to mastery, then Mondatta has surely mastered the art of sayings already. 

They’re alone; Zenyatta had said his goodbyes to the other members of the order the night before. They had laughed together, clasped his hands in their own and bidded him farewell and good travels. Had told him to be careful, to stay safe.

( _There is nothing safe about this world_ , Zenyatta had almost said, but he had stilled himself before the words could take form; they were unnecessary reminders. His siblings are content here, in their roost, and have no desire to go further. 

And after all they had gone through, it was hard not to agree with such things. Even now, as he prepares to take the first steps away from the family he had known for so long, part of him longs to stay.

Part of him will always stay here, he knows. In his memories, these moments will live forever.)

It’s impulse that stirs him to ask,

“Do you regret it?”

“Me?” Mondatta sounds surprised, a little; Zenyatta might have been gratified to know he could still surprise him with some things in any other situation but this. This parting--

( _this final goodbye_ )

\--as if to echo his feelings, the wind begins to pick up, blowing gently falling snow into a frenzy of white particles. Such sounds had comforted him before; now, they seem to him a warning of the long journey he has ahead.

“Of course,” Mondatta says, soft, after a moment. Barely audible. “I will miss you. As will all of us, but--”

“I know.”

Zenyatta’s voice is heavier still. He doesn’t talk about what they will both be losing; even if they are connected, it will be far away.

_”Mondatta, you should take care of yourself more,” he murmurs, connecting disjointed wires and cabling back into their proper places. “You cannot always go around like this, neglecting yourself.”_

_“Ah, but with you around to instruct on proper maintenance, I will never forget.” Mondatta’s voice is almost irritating in its serene calm, but it’s just something he’s saying to tease him. “I would never have the opportunity.”_

_”Mondatta, please,” Zenyatta says, his own tolerance not nearly as infinite as Mondatta’s seems to be. “The others look to you as their leader. I would not want it to be the fashion to walk around with dislocated limbs and poorly maintained joints.”_

_Mondatta simply laughs. The others hold him in such high regard and would not dare to say such words, but where they see someone who is discarding worldly concerns, Zenyatta sees only someone who discards himself for others -- and for that, he cannot stand._

_“Sometimes I wonder if you do these things to give me work,” the omnic sighs, standing back. His only answer is another laugh, one that shakes his frame._

They stand there in silence, as the snow blows around them both. He can’t even begin to fathom what Mondatta is thinking about.

“Well,” Mondatta says, after a moment. To anyone else, he would sound light again, soft and serene, but Zenyatta detects the miniscule wavers, the tremors in the voice that make him ache with guilt. “You should depart before the weather sees fit to bury us both. I would think this to be the best course of action.”

Zenyatta can only nod. Though he has no throat to choke up, something stops him from speaking regardless. It feels like a weight around his neck.

Mondatta places a hand on his shoulder. If he could smile with his facial plating, he would have; the emotion he wishes to share thrums through that moment of connection.

“Walk in harmony, Zenyatta,” he says, quietly. 

Zenyatta, for his part, only clasps Mondatta’s hand. He feels so odd, in this moment. A connection has passed between them, held them close; now it is gone, and what remains is not lesser, but still sundered.

That miniscule change that makes all the difference.

Mondatta doesn’t move; it’s Zenyatta who moves first, turning away, clasping Mondatta’s hand in both of his, one last time.

“And you, Mondatta,” he says, raising his head to look at him, standing so still.

(If he notices the way Mondatta’s fingers curl around his own, are reluctant to let go, are only gently pried away by Zenyatta as he moves away -- he doesn’t call attention to it, or make signs that he was aware of it. But they both know that he noticed. The little details, the subtle things, are what Zenyatta always picked up faster than Mondatta did.)

He trudges down the snow-covered path, wondering who will have to sweep it today. 

He doesn’t look back;

(only because he knows what will be there; Mondatta, silent and sad, watching him walk away until he is no longer visible. Only then will he return to the monastery, to the life that they had briefly shared.)

instead, he looks forward - and, even with a burdened spirit, welcomes the sunrise.


End file.
